Yes, but above all things I did not want a row. It would never do for a rising lawyer and a Member of Parliament to be found shouting for help in an upper chamber of a Bloomsbury restaurant. The worst deduction would be drawn from the open bottle of champagne. Besides, it might be all right after all. The door might have got stuck. Macgillivray at that very moment might be on his way up.
So I sat down and waited. Then I remembered my thirst, and stretched out my hand to the glass of champagne.
But at that instant I looked towards the window, and set down the wine untasted.
It was a very odd window. The lower end was about flush with the floor, and the hinges of the shutters seemed to be only on one side. As I stared, I began to wonder whether it was a window at all.
Next moment my doubts were solved. The window swung open like a door, and in the dark cavity stood a man.
Strangely enough, I knew him. His figure was not one that is readily forgotten.
“Good evening, Mr. Docker,” I said. “Will you have a glass of champagne?”
A year before, on the South Eastern Circuit, I had appeared for the defence in a burglary case. Criminal law was not my province, but now and then I took a case to keep my hand in, for it is the best training in the world for the handling of witnesses. This case had been peculiar. A certain Bill Docker was the accused, a gentleman who bore a bad reputation in the eyes of the police. The evidence against him was strong, but it was more or less tainted, being chiefly that of two former accomplices—a proof that there is small truth in the proverbial honour among thieves. It was an ugly business, and my sympathies were with the accused, for though he may very well have been guilty, yet he had been the victim of a shabby trick. Anyhow, I put my back into the case, and after a hard struggle got a verdict of “Not guilty.” Mr. Docker had been kind enough to express his appreciation of my efforts, and to ask, in a hoarse whisper, how I had “squared the old bird,” meaning the Judge. He did not understand the subtleties of the English law of evidence.
He shambled into the room, a huge, hulking figure of a man, with the thickness of chest which, under happier circumstances, might have made him a terror in the prize-ring. His features wore a heavy scowl, which slowly cleared to a flicker of recognition.
“By God, it’s the lawyer-chap,” he muttered.
I pointed to the glass of champagne.
“I don’t mind if I do,” he said. “ ’Ere’s health!” He swallowed the wine at a gulp, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “ ’Ave a drop yourself, guvnor,” he added. “A glass of bubbly will cheer you up.”
“Well, Mr. Docker,” I said, “I hope I see you fit.” I was getting wonderfully collected now that the suspense was over.
“Pretty fair, sir. Pretty fair. Able to do my day’s work like an honest man.”
“And what brings you here?”
“A little job I’m on. Some friends of mine wants you out of the road for a bit, and they’ve sent me to fetch you. It’s a bit of luck for you that you’ve struck a pal. We needn’t ’ave no unpleasantness, seein’ we’re both what you might call men of the world.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” I said. “But where do you propose to take me?”
“Dunno. It’s some lay near the Docks. I’ve got a motorcar waitin’ at the back of the ’ouse.”
“But supposing I don’t want to go?”
“My orders hadmit no hexcuse,” he said solemnly. “You’re a sensible chap, and can see that in a scrap I could down you easy.”
“Very likely,” I said. “But, man, you must be mad to talk like that. Downstairs there is a dining-room fall of people. I have only to lift my voice to bring the police.”
“You’re a kid,” he said scornfully. “Them geesers downstairs are all in the job. That was a flat-catching rig to get you up here so as you wouldn’t suspect nothing. If you was to go down now—which you ain’t going to be allowed to do—you wouldn’t find a blamed soul in the place. I must say you’re a bit softer than I ’oped after the ’andsome way you talked over the old juggins with the wig at Maidstone.”
Mr. Docker took the bottle from the wine-cooler and filled himself another glass.
It sounded horribly convincing. If I was to be kidnapped and smuggled away Lumley would have scored half a success. Not the whole, for, as I swiftly reflected, I had put Felix on the track of Tuke, and there was every chance that Tommy and Pitt-Heron would be saved. But for myself it looked pretty black. The more my scheme succeeded the more likely the Powerhouse would be to wreak its vengeance on me once I was spirited from the open-air world into its dark labyrinths.
I made a great effort to keep my voice even and calm.
“Mr. Docker,” I said. “I once did you a good turn. But for me you might be doing time now instead of drinking champagne like a gentleman. Your pals played you a pretty low trick, and that was why I stuck out for you. I didn’t think you were the kind of man to forget a friend.”
“No more I am,” said he. “The man who says Bill Docker would go back on a pal is a liar.”
“Well, here’s your chance to pay your debts. The men who
